Where the Magic Happens
by poetzproblem
Summary: They're exactly one day into their trip, and she's already lost her wife—and this isn't even the only thing that's gone wrong so far. Quinn is beginning to think that maybe they should have barricaded themselves inside their room at the Carlyle in New York for a blissful week of indoor thrills while every Disney film they owned played unwatched on the hotel television. Faberry Week


**Author's Note:** Written for Faberry Week, Day 1 - Disney.

Eternal thanks and cyber-hugs to Skywarrior108 for being the most awesome beta and for putting together these Faberry Weeks.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Glee _or the characters, I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.

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><p><strong>Where the Magic Happens<strong>

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><p><em>You may not realize it when it happens,<br>but a kick in the teeth may be the best thing in the world for you.  
><em>_~Walt Disney_

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><p>Quinn Fabray drags a hand through her short-again hair as she drops down onto a vacant bench under the shadow of the Eiffel Tower in France. Okay, so it isn't the<em> real<em> Eiffel Tower, and she isn't_ actually_ in France—she's fairly certain France doesn't have this many people this tightly packed together in ninety degree temperatures with seventy percent humidity. Her newly purchased Evil Queen t-shirt (because she's all about the villains) is already soaked through and probably giving the kids more sights to see than their parents had anticipated—she'd known that she should have gone with the black instead of the white, but_ ninety degrees_!—and she'd lost her own personal (very cute) dwarf somewhere between the Imagination pavilion and Canada.

"The most magical place on earth, my ass," she grumbles as her eyes scan the never-ending crowd for any sign of Rachel. Giving up, she digs for the phone that's practically suctioned into the tight pocket of her shorts (because she refuses to carry a purse around this place) and, after prying it loose, proceeds to send an S.O.S. text to her traveling companion.

_**Hey Tinker Bell, where are you?**_

Quinn reasons that the nickname is perfectly acceptable and not too ridiculously cutesy since Rachel is actually wearing a Tinker Bell t-shirt today. She doesn't want to become one of_ those_ couples—even if they are spending their honeymoon in Disney World. At least Rachel doesn't have them wearing bride and groom mouse-ears. Yet.

They've been together for few years now—ever since the night that they'd both gotten more than a little drunk over nostalgic memories of their misspent youth and ended up wrapped around each other, trading kisses until the sun came up. Quinn still isn't completely certain how it had happened. One minute, Rachel had been dragging her into a strange, tipsy conversation about how they'd practically already kissed one another because they'd kissed all the same men (and Santana—an unexpected college era experiment of Rachel's that Quinn hadn't known about) and the next they were enthusiastically turning that_ practically_ kissed into a_ thoroughly_ kissed.

That night with Rachel had turned out to be pretty much the best drunken "mistake" of Quinn's life, and now here they are, both having finally established a decent foothold in their chosen professions and foolishly blowing a good chunk of their savings on an overpriced, overcrowded honeymoon at a family amusement park instead of soaking up the sun on a secluded beach somewhere. Quinn blames this entirely on Rachel and the year she'd spent starring in_ Frozen_ on Broadway. Now her wife considers herself a bonafide Disney princess—no, make that_ Queen_—and she'd insisted that they just_ had_ to come here in honor of the role that had gotten Rachel back on the A-list.

Quinn has a strong suspicion that Rachel just wanted an excuse to come here and act like a child again before she plunges fully back into the middle of a hectic rehearsal schedule for her next show. Quinn has to admit that she would probably be enjoying it more if they hadn't decided to visit smack dab in the middle of a sweltering summer. Right now, the pool at their hotel is looking far more enjoyable than anything they might find inside the parks. The exhausted, grumpy faces all around her tell her that she's probably not the only person thinking that.

Quinn sighs as she leans back against the bench, hooking her fingers into the collar of her shirt as she attempts to peel it away from her skin and get some air circulating. Her phone vibrates, buzzing against her hand in time with the screaming two-year-old next to her who's throwing a tantrum for his frazzled mother, and she glances down, hoping Rachel will tell her that she's nearby. Unfortunately, Rachel is—

_**In Norway, of course, where any good Snow Queen should be. Where are you?**_

Quinn groans, because that's all the way on the other side of the World Showcase.

_**France**_, she fires off before she drags herself up from the bench, biting into her lip as she gazes across the lagoon and tries to decide which direction would actually be the shorter walk. Her phone buzzes again, and she glances at the message.

_**What are you doing way over there?**_

Quinn shakes her head. She can almost hear the exasperation in her wife's voice, and she sends a quick text back to Rachel as she steps off toward Morocco.

_**Baking in the Mediterranean sun. Stay there. I'm on my w…**_

Quinn's thumbs still on her phone and she frowns, quickly deleting out the last sentence. Even after all these years, Rachel still has an issue with that particular phrase. Instead, she types,_** I'll find you**_, as she dodges and weaves her way past the Japan pavilion.

They're exactly one day into their trip, and she's already lost her wife—and this isn't even the only thing that's gone wrong so far. Quinn is beginning to think that maybe they should have barricaded themselves inside their room at the Carlyle in New York for a blissful week of indoor thrills while every Disney film they owned (and they pretty much owned the entire library between the two of them) played unwatched on the hotel television.

Instead, they trekked out to Newark airport to catch the afternoon flight that they'd booked, only for Quinn to nearly have a full-fledged panic attack on the airplane when the pilot announced—after they'd already been sitting at the gate for forty minutes past their scheduled takeoff time—that they were having trouble getting all seven hundred of the computers to sync so they were going to shut down the engines and restart everything in a cold boot. The fifteen minutes that had followed are still kind of a blur. Quinn had already been feeling like the walls of the airplane were collapsing around her, and when the lights and air vents had shut off, all of the relaxation techniques that usually got her through her claustrophobia while traveling were sucked right out of the tiny, tiny cabin. Somehow, Rachel had managed to get Quinn's attention focused on her and stubbornly talked her through the worst of her attack until she could breathe again. The anxiety medication that Rachel had forced into her system hadn't hurt either.

Quinn figures that her newly medicated state was probably what had kept her from completely freaking out when they'd finally taken off—because_ they had to reboot the plane_! Talk about not having a warm and fuzzy feeling during a flight. When they'd finally landed in Orlando, they were almost two hours late and had to circle the runway for another thirty minutes until there was a gate available for them to disembark. Quinn had never been so happy to get the hell off a plane, and she isn't particularly looking forward to the flight back home.

To make matters worse, the delay meant that they hadn't gotten to their resort until after nine, and they'd both been tired and hungry and cranky when the very nice, polite, smiling "cast member" at the front desk had cheerfully informed them that she couldn't find their reservation. Rachel then proceeded to reach Barbra Streisand levels of Diva behavior until a manager had been called, and luckily, she was able to retrieve the reservation with their confirmation number, citing some kind of computer glitch. Frankly, Quinn hadn't cared at that point. She'd just wanted a bed to sleep in.

She supposes that the glitch had ultimately worked in their favor, because they'd been upgraded to a club level suite, though they really hadn't had the opportunity to enjoy it to the fullest last night between grabbing some much needed food, Rachel getting lost in the gift shop for an hour, and Quinn just wanting to pass out in that really comfortable bed after the trauma of flying (on a tiny plane that_ had to be rebooted_!). They'd thoroughly enjoyed the suite this morning, though, which had given them a later start to the day than Rachel had originally planned—though she wasn't complaining overmuch about it at the time with Quinn doing some very_ magical_ things to her body.

Rachel, of course, had originally attempted to schedule this trip down to the minute to create an optimum touring plan, but Quinn had argued for something a little more relaxing. There'd been a mildly heated disagreement about it before they'd even left New York, but after Quinn had gently reminded Rachel that she isn't able to ride some of the rougher rides that Rachel had put on her list due to her long-ago back injury, Rachel had immediately gotten teary-eyed and ripped up her schedule into little pieces. Quinn appreciates that Rachel is curbing her obsessive tendencies for her sake, but she can tell that her wife is dying to initiate a revised touring plan, especially since their attempt to ride Soarin' after a late arrival to Epcot had landed them in line for two hours.

Her phone buzzes again, and she frowns, working her way over to the edge of the path where there are less people and narrowly avoiding a mouse-ear-wearing grandma in an electric scooter who doesn't seem to care who's in her way. Quinn glances down at her phone as she slows her pace and pulls up the text.

_**Did you know you can drink around the world?**_

Quinn's frown deepens.

_***You* can't. That game is for people who can hold their alcohol.**_

_**Are you implying that I have a weak constitution?**_

The response is impressively fast, and Quinn shakes her head in amusement as she passes through Germany.

_**2 drinks & I have to hold you up**_.

There's a long pause before the reply comes—long enough for Quinn to be entering China.

_**That isn't the alcohol, Quinn. I just like it when you hold me. **_

Quinn smiles—a pleasant tingle of happiness warming her up even more that the hot day and the brisk walk.

_**And I like holding you, but you still can't handle more than one drink.**_

Not that Quinn really has a problem with that. Rachel's low tolerance for alcohol was the catalyst for their romantic relationship after all, and she can't deny that she kind of loves how touchy-feely Rachel gets when she's buzzed.

She expects another fast response, and she's a little bit disappointed when it doesn't come, but she's in Norway now, so she stops glancing at her phone in order to keep an eye out for her wife. She's a little frustrated when she doesn't spot her immediately—it's not like it's a huge pavilion—and she plants her hands on her hips and cranes her neck in an attempt to search the crowd.

"I'll have you know that I am handling this blood orange margarita very well, Quinn Fabray," comes the familiar voice from behind her.

Quinn spins around to see Rachel holding a half-empty glass of red liquid rimmed with salt and looking so much fresher than Quinn feels after having hiked around the showcase. "Please tell me that's all you've been drinking." She's so not in the mood to carry Rachel back to the hotel in this heat.

"Your unwarranted malignment of my constitution aside," Rachel huffs, "exactly how many alcoholic beverages could I have possibly consumed in the twenty minutes that we've been separated?"

"Puck could have been halfway around the world by now," Quinn points out with a shrug.

Rachel's eyes narrow. "I can't believe you would even attempt to compare me to_ Noah_."

Quinn smirks as she steps closer to her pouting wife. "There's no comparison," she assures her before dipping down to capture her orange and tequila flavored lips in a brief kiss—they _are_ in a very public place after all. "There's a reason I'm with_ you_ now and not him."

Rachel licks her lips, and her eyelids flutter open. "Because you finally realized that the only thing that you actually have in common with him is your appreciation for the fairer sex."

Quinn chuckles. It's certainly true, but, "It's because I love you, you dork."

"I love you too," Rachel breathes out with a smile. "Enough to share my margarita with you," she offers with a cheeky grin, holding up her glass.

Quinn eyes her knowingly as she takes the glass. "It's going to your head already, isn't it?"

"Not in the least," Rachel denies with pinkening cheeks. "I'm merely attempting to be gracious."

"Uh huh," Quinn humors her before she takes a sip. Honestly, she's not a big tequila fan, and she thinks the drink had tasted much better on Rachel's lips, but it's not terrible. She's not about to drink her way around the world though, and she certainly won't be encouraging Rachel to attempt it.

"I don't suppose Norway has an actual frozen village where we could cool off for a while? Or a week?" Quinn asks hopefully.

Rachel grins. "Not exactly, but there is an air-conditioned boat ride."

"Let's go," Quinn demands without hesitation, grabbing her wife's hand and tugging her toward the nearest building. Rachel laughs and skips along next to her, not even noticing when Quinn dumps what's left of the margarita into the nearest trash bin.

The line is long—of course—and filled with dozens of kids who still seem obsessed with_ Frozen_ despite the fact that it's been years since the film came out. Rachel smiles softly at the two girls in front of them as they attempt to sing "Let It Go," and Quinn is mildly surprised when she doesn't join in (or criticize the girls' pitch because, frankly, they're pretty off-key). When Rachel catches her staring in bemusement, she flashes a grin and admits, "I spent a year singing that damn song eight times a week. I'm not doing it again unless someone pays me, and even then, they wouldn't be able to afford my fee."

Quinn laughs. "I can't say I'm sorry to hear that." As much as she loves Rachel's voice, she'd had quite enough of hearing her sing that particular song by the end of Rachel's contract.

The actual ride is tame and pretty short, but Quinn does soak up every bit of air-conditioning between that and the gift shop and the adjacent bakery before they venture back out into the heat. The crowd is still annoyingly heavy despite the later hour, but it's certainly nice to walk hand-in-hand with Rachel as they stroll around the lagoon.

They stop to watch the acrobats perform in China, bang on the drums at the African outpost, admire the gorgeous glass figurines in Germany, and buy gelato from the stand in Italy. They duck back inside the air-conditioning at The American Adventure and stay to watch the show in its large theatre before moving on to browse through the shops in Japan. They both salivate over the pastries in France but forgo the indulgence because they have dinner reservations in an hour. Instead, they take in the film,_ Impressions de France_, and Quinn salivates a little over the images of the French countryside and Paris until Rachel promises, "I'll take you there someday soon."

It sounds wonderful to Quinn—but every promise and plan about their future together sounds wonderful to Quinn. "I'm holding you to that."

Rachel gazes at her thoughtfully. "I know this isn't Paris, but you're having a good time, aren't you?"

"When you're not disappearing halfway around the world on me," Quinn assures her with a smile.

"I can't help it that you zigged when you should have zagged," Rachel argues good-naturedly.

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Come on. Let's go eat. I'm starving."

After their dinner at the Rose & Crown Pub, where Quinn unapologetically polishes off her entire steak and a glass of cabernet while Rachel enjoys her vegetable cottage pie, they emerge to find the sun finally low enough in the sky to allow for the breeze off the lagoon to break the oppressive heat. They browse the shops in the United Kingdom before they backtrack (again) to the France pavilion and partake in a few of those pastries for dessert—Créme Brûlée and Mousse au Chocolat.

They decide to find a spot to wait for the evening performance of Illuminations—of course, everyone else already had that idea twenty minutes ago, so the fences and benches and walkways are filled with people standing and leaning and sitting until it's time for the show to begin. Quinn shakes her head at the utter ridiculousness of wasting that much time doing nothing just to see a show at a theme park.

"Is this really worth it?" she asks skeptically.

Rachel turns those big, brown eyes on her. "We_ have_ to stay to see the fireworks, Quinn."

Quinn tugs her wife closer, dropping her voice into a seductive purr. "Or we could go back to the hotel and make our own fireworks."

Rachel's tongue pokes out and darts over her lips, and for a moment, Quinn thinks that she's tempted her wife enough to give in, but then Rachel shakes her head resolutely. "We can do that later." Quinn attempts to turn her own big, sometimes-brown eyes on Rachel, puffing out her lips in a well-practiced pout, but Rachel stands strong—well, she waivers for a second or two with eyes darting from Quinn to the lagoon to the path to the exit, but eventually, she purses her lips and insists, "We're staying."

Quinn sighs in defeat, but she lets her wife lead her back across the bridge towards the United Kingdom. Rachel stops them right at the end of the bridge before the International Gateway, scurrying over to a space at the end of the railing and claiming it triumphantly. Quinn chuckles at the pleased grin on her face, glancing around them. She's a little surprised that there aren't really that many people stopped here yet—it seems like it might be a halfway decent view—but she's not complaining, although her legs and back probably will be after they stand here for the next thirty minutes. She'll worry about that later though. Right now, she's happy just to wrap her arms around Rachel from behind and lean into her as her wife leans into the railing.

She's not embarrassed to admit that she actually gets chills when the torches are finally lit around the lagoon and the music begins to play over the loudspeakers, and by the end of the show—after the images of an earth united play across the globe floating out on the water, and the fireworks burst into a dozen colors overhead, and the buildings of every country around the lagoon are lit in turn and then go dark—Quinn has to surreptitiously wipe a few tears from her eyes. Rachel spins in the circle of her arms, gazing up at her lovingly with the firelight dancing over her face, and Quinn thinks maybe this honeymoon might be pretty magical after all.

They exit through the International Gateway, avoiding the bulk of the crowd heading back to the main entrance, and begin the short walk back to the Yacht Club hotel. The Epcot resort area is oddly peaceful despite the presence of the other people around them. It's almost as if they've been transported off Disney property and into some quiet, New England village in just a few steps. There's some music coming from the clubs and activities on the Boardwalk across the lake, but on this side, there's mostly just soft conversations from tired park-goers and the twinkling of the lights that outline the hotel buildings.

Quinn is pretty exhausted by the time they finally hit the room, so she kicks off her shoes and collapses onto the bed—just for a minute. Rachel crosses over to the glass door that leads out to the semi-private balcony and slides it open, letting in the sounds of the boardwalk below and the warm breeze from the water. Quinn turns her head in time to see Rachel disappear outside, and she drags herself off the bed and pads out behind her wife, thinking it might be nice to relax under the stars for a while.

Rachel is leaning against the railing, looking out over the view from their fourth floor room, and Quinn presses into her back—the same way she did in the park. Rachel hums in pleasure as she pulls Quinn's arms around her. "So about those fireworks," she husks.

"We would have had a nice view from here," Quinn observes teasingly. "Private, too," she adds before brushing her lips over Rachel's cheek. Rachel turns in Quinn's arms and loops her own over Quinn's shoulders, capturing her mouth in a very un-Disneylike kiss. Quinn's exhaustion instantly ebbs, and she pulls her wife closer, slipping her hands under the back of Rachel's t-shirt and spreading her fingers against the soft, heated skin there as she deepens the kiss.

Rachel shifts against her, hooking one smooth leg behind Quinn's thigh and slowly dragging it up, and Quinn presses closer as she slides one hand down to trail over the curve of Rachel's ass. Rachel moans softly and glides one of her own hands down to cup Quinn's breast while the other sinks into her hair.

Quinn knows where this is headed—or she hopes she does—but she remains vaguely conscious of the people on the boardwalk below them, though it's dark enough that she doubts anyone can clearly see them. "I don't think this is on the list of Disney approved entertainment," she murmurs huskily, though it doesn't stop her from urging Rachel's leg higher until it's hooked around her waist.

"Mmm. Maybe we should take it inside," Rachel suggests breathlessly.

Quinn smirks, feeling a little naughty. "Or we can just see how quiet you can be out here."

Rachel's eyes flash with hunger as she bites into her lower lip, and her hands begin to tug at Quinn's shirt. "I guess that depends on you," she purrs, freeing Quinn from the garment with her full consent, "and those magic fingers of yours." Rachel tosses the balled-up t-shirt back toward the open balcony door.

"Challenge accepted," Quinn teases, hooking those same fingers under the hem of Rachel's shirt and stripping it away—it's only fair now that Quinn is topless. She drops the shirt to the floor and wraps her arms around her wife to pull her back into the shadows of their balcony before she sinks down onto the little metal table that rests between the two chairs. She opens the button on Rachel's shorts and slowly pulls down the zipper while she grins wickedly up at Rachel. "Can you feel the love tonight?" she sings lowly.

Rachel's head tips back and she groans, tangling her fingers in Quinn's hair. "You're not playing fair. You know what happens when you sing to me."

Quinn does—it's the same thing that happens to her when Rachel sings to her. She gets very, very turned-on. "It is where we are," Quinn continues with a smile before tugging Rachel's shorts down her legs—panties included. She slowly trails her fingers up the inside of Rachel's thighs as she leans in to kiss her tanned belly.

"Q-Quinn, baby."

"It's enough for this wide-eyed wanderer that we got this far," Quinn croons against her wife's toned skin. Despite her original intention of singing a Disney song to Rachel as something of a joke, she realizes how appropriate that particular sentiment is to their relationship after their less than stellar beginning.

When she presses a hand between Rachel's legs, Rachel moans, pushing at Quinn's shoulders before she straddles her lap. "Pinned ya," she growls playfully, capturing Quinn's mouth in a passionate kiss. Quinn's hand slides between their bodies and finds Rachel's center to work their magic while Rachel gently rocks against her.

There's something undeniably beautiful about making love to her wife under the moonlight with the lights reflecting off the water of the lake and the music drifting over from the opposite shore. And the thrill of knowing that anyone could potentially see or hear them makes it even better as they both get completely lost in their very adult, Disney adventure.

For the record, Rachel doesn't stay quiet.

But neither does Quinn.

_xx_

Quinn wakes up the next day after a very late (and very vigorous) night to find Rachel already awake and showered, wearing yet another Disney t-shirt—this one red with the word love written across the front, though the "O" has been replaced with Mickey's familiar head and the "V" with his shoes. She shakes her head indulgently at the sight. Apparently, she's married to an actual five-year-old.

"Rise and shine, sleepy-head," Rachel urges, jerking the covers off of Quinn's naked body. "We have a full day of touring ahead of us."

Quinn groans and rolls over, catching sight of the clock and the ungodly hour, and she pulls one of the dozen spare pillows over her head. She just wants to spend the day in bed—preferably with her wife. The mattress dips and bounces before Rachel's body covers her, and she feels the pillow being tugged away.

"Quinn," Rachel whines. "It's already six o'clock, and the park opens at eight. We have to be there for opening."

"No, we don't," Quinn argues, keeping her eyes resolutely shut because she can hear the pout in Rachel's voice, and she knows if she looks at her wife, she'll be a goner.

"But they sing, Quinn! There's a whole show at the front gate with the train and Mickey and Minnie and Donald. We_ have_ to be there to see it. Please," Rachel begs. Quinn can feel the hot puffs of Rachel's breath next to her ear while her fingertips drag back and forth across the skin beneath her left breast. "If you do this for me, I'll do something for you," she promises huskily.

Quinn involuntarily shivers under Rachel's touch, but she doesn't open her eyes. "Like what?" she asks curiously.

"Like the something we did on the balcony last night. Maybe we can test out that nice whirlpool tub in the bathroom next."

Quinn considers this for a moment, but then she resolutely shakes her head. "You'll do that anyway."

"Quinn!" Rachel growls, pinching her side.

Quinn yelps in surprise and grabs Rachel's hand, eyes snapping open as she rolls over. Her movement tips Rachel off balance, sending her sprawling awkwardly across the mattress with a squeal. Quinn stifles her laughter as she catches sight of the exaggerated pout on Rachel's face. "That's what you get for resorting to violence to get your way."

"Because you're always so difficult," Rachel sulks, shuffling closer to Quinn. "I'm going to buy you a Grumpy t-shirt to wear."

"Don't you dare," Quinn warns with a frown. Just because she isn't a morning person like Rachel doesn't make her_ grumpy_. Sleepy, maybe.

"If you can get that fantastic ass of yours in gear," Rachel emphasized with a playful smack to Quinn's backside, "and get me to the park before eight, then I promise there will be no Grumpy merchandise bought with your name on it."

"So you're resorting to blackmail since bribery didn't work?" Quinn clarifies.

Rachel flashes a completely unapologetic smile. "Exactly." She lurches up to plant a fast and sloppy to kiss Quinn's parted lips before she flounces off the bed. "Now get moving," she demands with a sharp clap of her hands. "We're burning magic hours."

Quinn groans again and flops back on the bed, tossing her arm over her forehead. "Magic, my ass."


End file.
